


Egg and Spoon

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets married. Sherlock goes through the motions, because he's really rather good at that. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>There were rules, to dancing; steps you could learn. Sherlock was particularly good at it, as he was good at anything he set his mind to.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Egg and Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the always lovely [Bentbackedtulip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bentbackedtulip) for the beta.

Too high a threadcount by far for such a throwaway thing, though Mycroft would (and did) no doubt disagree - Sherlock could see him out of the corner of his eye, very carefully not eating the icing off his laden fork. Sherlock pushed his napkin away with his fingers. Inch by inch.

"Just wait. Mycroft will devour that cake like a lover he hasn't seen in years." 

"You would know." 

Lestrade grinned. Sherlock didn't look at him, but he knew the man to the point of tedium. This was _laddish_ , wasn't it? How droll to imply a sexual past with another man; how absolutely gauche. Such fun. His nails scratched against the tablecloth, lightly. Lestrade was gone, off to find drinks or Molly Hooper, whichever was nearest, and hopefully in combination. 

There was no music. There should be music. Maybe there was, but the voices were louder, as they always were. There was a rythm, though. The undulation of the crowd as it flowed around Sherlock, a single eddy in an otherwise appealing sea; the movement predictable like any tide. Sherlock counted silently to fifteen, and reached down to pick up the lost shoe ( _pink satin, dyed for the occasion_ ) of an all too enebriated (absurd to be drinking at a breakfast; what was the point in using the term if it did nothing to describe the meal in question) giggling girl who did not thank him as she snatched it away. "I never vary my fees," he yelled after her as she faded into the foreground again and away. 

He had been seated close to them, of course. Little blonde hairs, mid-length and short, ( _curled both, somewhat_ ) still on his jacket. A few had fallen on the table, along with minute particles of glitter, and a single flower petal. One sort or another. It hardly mattered ( _rose, Hybrid Tea, Memoriam_ ). Sherlock wondered, idly, how long this was expected to go on. There had been all the requisite ceremonies; cake had been cut, speeches spoken, yet drinks were still being had. He did not particularly want to leave. Not _particularly_. 

_Then_ , music. 

Dancing. Yes. That was the next and momentarily forgotten step. Sherlock mentally prepared himself, and rose when a pastel spectre past him, trying not to catch his eye. The little surprised gasp as he held his hand out to her was neither here nor there, though certainly not unexpected. And so, they moved. 

There were rules, to dancing; steps you could learn. Sherlock was particularly good at it, as he was good at anything he set his mind to. Besides which, not unimportantly, the music flowed. The lady in his arms turned her head and he closed his eyes, moving to it, not her. That was better. He knew, from this point where they now were swaying, exactly how many steps there were to John. He could hear his voice, under the chatter, not over it; low and calm. Happy. Sherlock opened his eyes as the lady turned again, and flashed her a brilliant smile. It was all in the flourish, dancing. 

"You've done-"

 _"..this before_ ," Sherlock finished for her, not quite soft enough, and she noticed. 

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, something caught in my throat."

"Probably-"

"...cake."

She didn't mind. She smiled. This was 'charming', most likely. "Yeah. Absolutely-"

"-lovely party? Yes, I know."

"I'm Sharon, by the way."

"I know that too." He bit his lip. Enough. Maybe he could feign fatigue and go sit down. No. That would bring unwanted attention. Besides, she would ask anyway, evident in the rise of her plucked eyebrow:

"What more do you know? What can you tell?" She showed her teeth. The bleaching was cheaply done and would erode the enamel if she did it again; she'd have a host of cavities the next time she bothered going in for something non-cosmetic, but that wasn't the answer she was looking for. 

"It's not a party trick. I keep telling people."

Her smile grew more shy; deliberately so. "I'm sorry, people must ask you that-"

"...all the time? Yes." He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to feel the music, not the lack of properly supportive undergarments under his hands, so deliberately displayed. Not this constant anno- 

"It must be very annoying." 

"I cope." 

The music stopped, and Sherlock excused himself quickly, finding a chair on the opposite and safe side of the room. Incredibly, she followed him. "I was being rude," she said, not meaning it. A single particle of glitter had fallen from her overly made-up lids and onto the lashes of her left eye, making her blink irritatingly. 

"That's quite all right."

"I was wondering if I could get you a dr-"

"I don't."

"All right; something non-alcoholic, then?"

John's eyes were on him, and the only thing Sherlock could say was yes. He sat there, letting her get it. The air was filling with the dust of dozens of expensive frocks, whirling. Mycroft was watching, but Mycroft always did. There was a line at the bar, and before the girl could worm her way through the throng back at him, Sherlock escaped the other way. 

 

\----

 

There was a bench; a cushioned, overstuffed thing, in a neglected hallway just on the edge of everything else. Sherlock ached for a cigarette, but this was not the place for it. This was a place for light, pretty things and all he was not. John's things. Waistcoats and cream-colored napkins and wide green lawns. Strawberries in the tea tent. Egg and spoon races. Things not in evidence, but hinted at, like gunpowder and blood. He smiled, leaning back into the shadows.


End file.
